


make my messes matter (make my chaos count)

by alltheworldsinmyhead



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bellarke, F/M, clarke is given a chance to actually heal, letter writing, pregnancy & motherhood, so season 2 compilant, what-could've-beens, written a million years ago after season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 21:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21125753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheworldsinmyhead/pseuds/alltheworldsinmyhead
Summary: First letters come when frost finally lets go of the river. / a.k.a. clarke leaves to heal herself; it doesn't mean she abandons anyone // canon divergence post-season 2 finale





	make my messes matter (make my chaos count)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone! I thought I would never write bellarke again and technically I didn't, since it's the fic I wrote many, many years ago and for some unknown reasons forgot to post. Ha! So here you are now, hope you'll enjoy.   
This fic is dedicated to the best reviewer, best beta and best friend in the entire world - Lana, darling, I don't deserve you <3 <3.

_I‘ll see you in the future when we’re older_

_And we are full of stories to be told_

_Cross my heart and hope to die_

_I’ll see you with your laughter lines_

_-Laughter Lines, Bastille_

I.

First letters come when frost finally lets go of the river.

It’s not spring yet, and Echo told him not to let anyone get their hopes too high- weather is unpredictable and cold can come back quickly and violently, but – fuck, winter was so hard and now there are flowers blooming in-between ponds of mud and still-remaining snow. People are laughing again, letting yellow light of spring sun kiss their pale, frostbitten faces and Bellamy slowly, _very slowly_ lets himself take a breath. It feels as if he was holding it ever since first snows hit them, when they were so epically unprepared and if it wasn’t for Lincoln, they’d probably all be dead by Winter Solstice (what an irony- Bellamy thinks sometimes, looking at Lincoln wrestling with kids, helping Abby, kissing Octavia- what an irony indeed).

And even with Lincoln, there was nothing easy about those last few months and Bellamy’s hands are calloused and rough from digging too many graves in the frozen ground. And then flu hit them and there were too many bodies to bury, so they burned them instead. He can still almost smell it; this strangely sweet smoke smelling like meat, which was making their empty stomachs growl, which in turn would make them sick.

There was nothing easy from the beginning till the end and the hardest part was that there was a huge hole with jagged edges where Clarke was supposed to be and where she wasn’t, his ‘_together_’ haunting his dreams and hers ‘_you won’t be by yourself’_ mocking him over and over again.

But now spring is finally truly coming, days become longer and he manages to sleep more than an hour or two during most nights, so he decides to focus on positives.

Letters come when Bellamy’s on a hunting trip deep in the forests; they are waiting for him in Arkadia along with Echo. She was a frequent visitor during the winter; serving as their link to the situation between clans, telling them all about Lexa’s trial, about the fall of the treaty, about wars coming and ending and beginning ( because all this world is war, war and war, constantly. Never stopping, not even to take a breath). The only thing she wasn’t telling them about is, well. 

Clarke.

Bellamy knows Echo knows where Clarke is. Or at least, has a general idea. She slipped it, once or twice, mentioning some ‘Wanheda’ in a tone living legends are spoken about, but the person she described didn’t seem like his Clarke at all. His Clarke was soft eyes and steel turned skin and blood under her fingernails because she was saving somebody, not because she strangled someone with them. His Clarke was hummed lullabies and her father’s worn-out watch and grace with every movement… but his Clarke is gone and he doesn’t know if she’s ever coming back and hearing about new Clarke is too painful, so he’d rather not know anything at all.

Echo is sitting in front of his cabin, eyes closed, facing the sun and well, it turns out that not only Sky People are done with winter. She greets him with a simple nod and tells him that she has something for him. He expects everything, but a small package haphazardly wrapped in some kind of green cloth, smooth under his fingers and tied with a piece of string.

“This went through a long journey”- Echo informs while handing him the bundle. “One of the traveling clans from North brought it to my village, asking if anyone still keeps any kind of contact with Sky People. They really didn’t want to bring it in here themselves. “

Echo draws abstract lines on the fabric of her pants with her index finger, looking down and apparently thinking how to tell him something, while Bellamy fights with an urge to smile grimly. Apart from Echo and Lincoln, they haven’t spotted a single Grounder during winter. Not that Bellamy complained about it- they certainly had enough trouble even without them- but he had found it strange, until he realized that the legend of Clarke is not only a legend of Clarke but also the legend of Sky People- Those Who Burn, he heard Echo saying one time, Those Who Burn everything standing in their way.

(what an irony)

“Just- just open it.”- says Echo eventually, raising her head to look into his eyes. “ And if you want to send anything back, let me know.”

She waves to him goodbye before he can get a chance to say anything and turns around quickly, her boots making soft, cracking noises on wet snow and mud. He is left standing in front of the hut with the package still in his hands, frozen in time and space, a good few minutes before he manages to move again.

He leaves the bundle by the doors and just - goes. To do things that don’t really need to be done, supervise people who are doing just fine without him hovering, piss off O ( ‘’What the fuck is wrong with you, Bell’’ ) and have yet another unnecessary shouting match with Abby before he’s able to come back and dare to unwrap it.

The string lets go easily, the cloth parts and Bellamy can see pile of – paper? Is it really paper?- few dried flowers, which slip from his knees and land on the ground and a greenish, nice smelling thing, which appears to be some kind of bark.

Half of the sheets of paper- which is also gray-green and there are tiny plant veins visible on their surface – turn out to be empty. The other half is full of words- words spilling on the margins, words on words, words chaotic and wild and crazy and-

_II._

_Dear Bellamy,_

_It’s been twenty –two days and I think I’m losing my mind. I bumped into a Grounder hunting party today; they just dropped their weapons and things and ran away from me, so I took their things I guess I’m a thief now, why not, actually so they had this paper and a pen, it must be from before the Apocalypse and it still works, can you believe? And I started to write this, I heard people used to write letters to their loved ones when they were away-_

_Dear Bellamy,_

_It’s been thirty –seven days, I wonder how Monty’s doing, how you are doing, how are you all doing, it’s so cold, I fell asleep on a tree branch and now I can’t feel my fingers, it hurts, Bellamy, it hurts to even-_

_Dear Bellamy,_

_It’s been fifty days, I found a bark which works miracles on frostbites you should give it to my mother or Lincoln, or I should’ve given it to them, but I’m not with you, I’m alone here, I think I’ve lost my mind-_

_Dear Bellamy,_

_It’s been exactly fifty-eight days-_

_I miss you_

_I miss you_

_I miss you_

_I miss you_

_Dear Bellamy,_

_I’m haunted by myself._

III.

First, she catches a terrible cold. Then she slips on a thin layer of ice while hunting and injures her head and she doesn’t even remember how she manages to crawl into the cave she has been living in for some time and collapse on the fur. Her head is spinning, burning red and she sees Wells and Finn and her dad and Bellamy-

“Are you dead?”- she asks, confused and then he looks at her and she sees his body drained out blood, his eyes desperate, his hands stretched out, reaching for her:

“You told me to go.”- he says and his voice makes her shiver.” You told me to go and I went, was it worth it?”

_Was it worth it was it worth it was it worth it Clarke was it worth it tell us Clarke tell us weren’t we worth it was it worth us_ – dead men of her life repeat and repeat and Clarke screams and screams and screams until her voice dies out and she drifts into a blackness and there’s nothing and nobody around her anymore.

IV.

_Dear Bellamy, _

_I’m on the coast now, in Luna’s clan village. Their language is like a song on a wind; you’d love it. Luna sends her love to Lincoln. I had- rough time during winter, you can probably tell from the other letters. But those people helped me and –_

_Bell, they don’t seem to be afraid of me. I don’t remember them being involved in Mount Weather war, but they must’ve heard of it, heard of me. Still, nobody here treats me like other Grounders. Travelers stopped in a village and they agreed to bring my letters to Camp Jaha, even if they didn’t seem completely comfortable with it. I hope you’ll get it. It’s not much –and I don’t expect to get anything back – but that’s the best I can do now. _

_I just want you to know I think about you every day. All the time. And I’m so, so sorry, Bell. _

_Out of all the terrible things I’ve done, I’m most sorry for the ones I did to you._

_I miss you, _

_Clarke_

V.

“She doesn’t get to do this shit!”

Octavia’s all flaming anger, standing in the middle of his hut and waving her hands.

“Not after she left. She left us, she left you; she doesn’t get to write you things like that!’’

But Bellamy’s angry too, anger to match Octavia’s, slowly burning his insides.

“Who the fuck allowed you to read it? How do you even know I get this, huh? You’re going through my stuff now, O?”

“Yes, because apparently you’re not capable of making rational decisions like burning this shit without reading! You’re probably already writing her a reply, aren’t you?” 

“It’s not your damn business, Octavia!”

They circle each other like wild dogs thrown into the pit, ready to fight with their fangs and claws. Octavia’s still holding Clarke’s letters and she throws them into his face, bares her teeth and fucking _hisses._

“You know it’s all her fault. Everything that went wrong, is because of her. She killed all those people- TonDC, Month Weather, it was all her. “

Bellamy sees red and he could never, ever hurt his sister, but he feels his hands fisting, muscles clenching, bloodthirst swallowing him whole and he’s just so angry.

“I killed all those people along with her, Octavia.” – he says lowly, breath heavy and head low, facing her like a charging bull. “If Clarke’s a murderer, then so am I.”

“Because she made you this way!”- Octavia shouts so loudly, that her voice breaks in half and his fists drop to his sides and he just looks at her. He feels his lungs collapsing, his heart-stopping, entire freaking world freezing for a moment.

His sister is shivering like a leaf on a wind, hands outstretched towards him and shining eyes.

“She sent you away.-“ she whispers, stuttering like a little child and then she turns around so he won’t see her crying. “She sent you away and you went for her and I could- I thought I- I could lose you.”

Her shoulders are shaking and she wraps her arms around herself, sobbing and Bellamy’s standing still, hearing white noise in his ears and suddenly coming back to the times, when Octavia had bangs and curious eyes and clean hands and he was her only lifeline, the only thing connecting her with the whole wide world bigger than two chairs, two bunk beds and endless darkness under the floor.

“Octavia..”- he wants it to sounds like an apology, but instead it comes out like a plea.

_Understand. Please. I can only forgive myself, if Clarke’s forgiven too. _

He hesitantly takes two steps and raises one hand to touch her back, to comfort her, but something stops him halfway. His hand’s frozen in its track, frozen in the air, hanging between him and Octavia like a blown-up bridge between two worlds which will never be connected anymore.

She hiccups, wipes the tears with the palm of her hand and turns around. Her braids are coming undone and the dark make-up around her red eyes is smudged, but she stands straight, with chin up high and says, clearly and calmly:

“She doesn’t deserve you.”

O marches out of the hut and he doesn’t stop her.

Instead, he kneels down to pick up the letters and puts them in order.

And then he takes the pen he asked Lincoln to bring him from the last trade and presses the tip of it to the clean sheet of paper.

_Dear Clarke,_

_Winter was fucking awful and spring’s not much better, but at least it’s warmer now. _

VI.

Clarke decides she likes the ocean most.

It’s big and wide and endless; silver-gray waves with white manes, cool sand under her bare feet, wild wind and the smell of salt, smoked fish and crown made of finger-cutting sharp seagrass - it’s everything she dreamed it would be, long, long time ago, and so much more and nothing less.

She wasn’t planning to stay, truth to be told. For the first few weeks she was constantly waiting for this sharp tug of ache inside_ just go, just go, far and far and never come back _but it never came and Luna’s people are more gentle and kinder than anyone who she has ever met and they’re the only ones who seem not to be afraid of her. So she stays.

She patches up hunters and delivers children along with the old, nearly blind healer; she kisses scraped knees of kids and learns how to knot fishing nets and breathes in, breathes out, washes her face in icy, salty water.

One time, girl from the village brings her charcoals and she spends hours on playing with them, morbidly fascinated with how different they feel, when her hands are no longer soft and white, but callused and cut and scarred and short on one finger and red, so, so red.

Clarke draws sea and people and a little, chubby boy chewing his fist and before she can even notice, she draws constellations of freckles and messy hair and soft, sad eyes; brown ponytails and sharp elbows and braids; goggles and gentle smiles and she wants to weep, she misses them all so much.

She wonders about her package, she wonders if it ever reached Bellamy, she wonders if it even matters at all.

She –well, she’s healing. But she’s still aching, something is still tearing her apart from the inside and she still can’t seem to let go of so many things, so she can’t go back.

She hasn’t had any hallucinations ever since she’s been around humans again, but her nightmares still have brown eyes and are holding a little football ball in their clawed hands.

VII.

“Bellamy, Bellamy tell us a story!”

Bellamy stares at the fire as kids are chirping loudly in his ears; he keeps his hands on his knees, palms out, fingers outstretched as if he was holding something.

“Once upon a time, there was a princess-”

“Clarke! Clarke!”

“Okay, okay!” – she laughs, with her head thrown back, but her eyes sad when she says-

“Once upon a time, there was a rebel – “

“-turned queen-“

Octavia’s bright eyes, narrowed lips, sharp pain in his chest.

“-turned king.”

Flames dancing on a pile of sea wood, her voice full of nostalgia.

VIII.

By the next spring, Clarke has a baby inside of her.

She doesn’t know whose it is; she doesn’t really want to know, to be honest. There were few, men, women, nothing to grow attached to, just a tension relief, fuck and forget. She needs to get rid of it, but she spends too much time thinking about what she needs and what she wants and about Ark and Octavia Blake and then she can feel it move and everything in her screams mine _mine mine_.

So she lets it stay.

She lets it grow.

She lets herself grow bigger; soon enough her spine starts to hurt like a bitch and her eyes water when she sees little kids, little birds, little dogs and apparently every single damn little thing in the world. Her feet swell and her breasts ache and she suddenly craves wild mushrooms and tuna and apples.

She goes through twenty- hours- long labor, clutching Lila’s hand all through it and crying for her mom and Bellamy, delirious with pain, sweat and tears and blood and then-

A pair of very brown eyes, strangely calm; a cloud of delicate blonde hair. They look at each other and it’s like the world stops turning and for a moment there are just Clarke and this tiny alien thing covered in her blood, small starfishes of her hands fisted, small feet kicking the air.

Clarke’s daughter has long lashes, pink, wrinkled skin and a nose like a tiny button and Clarke can’t stop looking at her, won’t stop looking at her. She feels some kind of –oblivion. Everything that was messed up before, everything she couldn’t deal with, now perfectly in order and she can’t remember being in such peace ever in her entire life.

_IX._

_Dear Bellamy, _

_Her name is Julia. _

Bellamy clenches the paper in his hand, head thrown back and just- breathes out.

_X._

When Julia’s eight months old, Clarke slowly starts packing.

It’s unintentional, at first; cleaning her hut, throwing some things away or giving them as a gift to those who needed it more than her anyway, packing the rest in sacks, trading with travelers for material for a travelling carrier for an infant– she does all those things before even realizing what she’s doing, until one day Aidan walks on her while she’s asking Rhea where she could get a horse, or maybe even two and how can she pay for them.

“So you’re really leaving, huh?”- he doesn’t sound accusing, but a bit sad and like he has been expecting it for some time now.

And Clarke… Clarke takes a deep breath and nods.

_Dear Bellamy,_

_It’s been three years now. I think it’s time to go home. Would you like to meet my daughter? _

The reply comes fast as the wind, two lines written on a piece of paper apparently torn from the bigger one, letter bold and honest.

_Dear Clarke,_

_Can’t wait. _

_XI._

They leave at dawn, moon and stars still visible on the golden-pink sky, Julia napping in her sling. Luna hugs her tightly and then Lila and Mara and Devon and Rhea and then the whole village kissing her cheeks and touching her hair and saying _thank you_ and Clarke has such a lump in her throat that she can barely breathe, because she’s the one that owes them everything she has now.

Aiden helps her up on the saddle and pats her thigh.

“You’re always welcomed here, you two. And I have a feeling we’ll see each other again.”- he winks, a wide grin spread on her face and she suddenly remembers why she even let this man, those people, get closer to her in the first place. “Also, I want to meet this man of yours and remind him how lucky he is. Being loved by a woman like you, Clarke- tragedy, but what a privilege at the same time.”

And to that, she can only blush.

XII.

She comes back at sunrise; appears like a ghost from between trees on the white horse, baby strapped to her chest, sacks hanging from both sides of her saddle.

He abandons his post near the gate and runs and runs and runs and she jumps off the horse and runs too, but when they’re ten feet apart from each other, they slow down.

It’s been three years -

( but when Bellamy looks at her _beaming, _all golden hair and blue eyes and pink-cheeked baby glancing at him curiously half-hiding his face in the crook of her neck, he feels like not a day has passed since dropship)

“Hi.”- she says, breathless, taking one tiny step closer.

“Hello.”- he responds, taking another.

She looks him in the eyes, smiling, and she has damn laughter lines on her face. God, he wants nothing else but to spend the rest of his life giving her more. He raises his hand and traces them delicately and she shivers under his touch, leaning into his hand.

“Bell.”- her voice is hoarse with emotions and low, just above a whisper. “ I missed you, Bell.”

Sun is setting, casting reds and goldens on her hair as he wraps his arms around her and her daughter and she presses her face to his shoulder and the forest is so wonderfully, wonderfully green.

And in this one moment, they are everything and nothing and Bellamy knows there are storms in the future and broken hearts and bloody hands; but right now, when he can feel her lips on his skin and her baby’s little hand fisting his shirt, all they are is right and real and exactly, where they are supposed to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my story - if you enjoyed it, please leave me a comment down below <3


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